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[R5, Late Afternoon, Liar's Market] There's More To Be Said In These Words (tif, jade, open)
It was a hot day under the Mugrobi sun this day. Hotter than usual it seemed, the bite of the rays burning into everything it touched, making the sand beneath ones feet unbearable and the stone of the houses glaringly bright. Looking out into the distance, images waivered like mirages as the heat radiated off every surface. Most people had retreated from the market to find relief indoors and under cover where they could. Those who had braved the sun to continue to sell their wares didn't bother to hawk at passerby, most of them didn't even bother to stand. They lazed in chairs, cooling themselves with hand fans and wet wash cloths. There was not a breeze to be felt, as though the winds themselves was hiding from the sun.
Shai'zara found this as the perfect time of day to sell her spells. Less beady eyes to stare in fear, or disgust, or disgruntled heightened concern. Moving through the market, linen shawl covering her head and shoulders to protect her from the burning of the afternoon sun, the cautious oshoor glanced at the stalls and shops with wide blue eyes as she passed by, looking for a specific place. They always existed, in some form or another.
Lidya Keziah
Lies, Fibs, and Excuses
Dirt Cheap!
Shai'zara glanced at the sign on the canvas stall, pursing her lips in thought. The shop was an option, but it also seemed more of a place to buy rather than sell. Still, maybe the proprietress would be able to steer her in the direction of a book-keep or spell-keep.
Approaching the stall, the painted spellwrit lowered her shawl and ducked under the shaded cover of the stall.
"Hello?" She called out in a voice a lot softer and a lot sweeter than her appearance would imply.
Shai'zara found this as the perfect time of day to sell her spells. Less beady eyes to stare in fear, or disgust, or disgruntled heightened concern. Moving through the market, linen shawl covering her head and shoulders to protect her from the burning of the afternoon sun, the cautious oshoor glanced at the stalls and shops with wide blue eyes as she passed by, looking for a specific place. They always existed, in some form or another.
Lidya Keziah
Lies, Fibs, and Excuses
Dirt Cheap!
Shai'zara glanced at the sign on the canvas stall, pursing her lips in thought. The shop was an option, but it also seemed more of a place to buy rather than sell. Still, maybe the proprietress would be able to steer her in the direction of a book-keep or spell-keep.
Approaching the stall, the painted spellwrit lowered her shawl and ducked under the shaded cover of the stall.
"Hello?" She called out in a voice a lot softer and a lot sweeter than her appearance would imply.
Comments
"An excuse? I have little doubt we could all use one of those. However, I do not seek one today." Pulling open her small bag, the blue eyed writer drew out a few scrolls of paper.
"I noticed you sell those which some people need more than most. Lies, fibs...excuses. I wondered then, being a knowledgable tradeswoman, if you were also in the business of buying?" Pulling the string off one scroll, she unravelled it. A simple spell, and a licensed one. Push. Straight foward, and plainly written. Flattening the scroll, the painted woman traced the monite scratches with her finger.
"I have more like this." She said simply, her voice slightly desperate. The oshoor had not had much success in The Turtle. People were more...wholesome. They scared well enough, but maybe a little to well. Her stomach growled slightly, and Shai'zara looked at the little girl with a quick blink-and-you'd-miss-it smirk.
"Your little one is very pretty." She said softly, a deep pang in her heart. The oshoor remembered being folded into her mothers skirts. A long time ago now, so long it felt like another lifetime. Still, she'd arrived in The Turtle for a reason. She had a purpose now, but all good intentions needed the basics. Food. Shelter. Income.
Far out of the afternoon oven-like heat of the Liar’s Market, Iyoas was flooding busy: everything and its third cousin’s liera was due in eight days or less. While the printmaker would have liked to say he was picky about his clients, Poster Day was a rare exception because everything paid excruciatingly well. Did he print for a single party? No. Did he print based on his own political views? No. Did he have political views? That was up for debate, considering he was well aware of his status as practically a non-citizen in the well-greased cogs of Thul’Ka’s spinning social wheels. Oh well. Coin was coin, and he was still legally allowed to earn and spend it. He just happened to earn most of his years’ income in the burst of sleepless, fever-paced poster printing that took place in the month and weeks leading up to Poster Day. Everyone wanted their posters first, everyone wanted this proof or that proof, everyone wanted something tweaked, everyone wanted to make sure the paper was just right. Everyone wanted everything without any consideration for anyone else, and the half-blood was waiting for the year he couldn’t come through with meeting all the demands placed on his craftsmanship.
This was not going to be that year.
“Yaka, you can’t just toss a armful of paper into the soaking tub.” Iyoas was grumbling, chastising the young man he’d begrudgingly accepted as his apprentice. The boy was barely fifteen, a short, scrawny thing who’d very literally been deposited on his doorstep one night in early Hamis by some charitable, anonymous customer… most likely because the quiet, almost timid Tendaji was also oshoor.
Had he been a customer’s son? Had he been wandering the streets? Had he been locked up in someone’s house for five years after some horrified discovery that the poor thing had a field stronger than what was socially acceptable on the Turtle?
The printmaker didn’t necessarily want to know the details. He’d already lived them.
He couldn’t decide if he should be immensely grateful or deeply insulted. He wasn’t quite sure if the well-meaning though somewhat misdirected intention was for him to adopt the boy or if he had just unwillingly volunteered himself. There hadn’t been any time for deep, meaningful conversation; the tall, ridiculously busy bookbinder had put him to work and said nothing else about the matter, not even promising him pay so much as putting him up in his guest room and letting him eat as long as he did the cooking.
“Like this,” he quickly took the heavy load of fresh paper from the tub with a grunt, dripping all over the floor, and set it back on the worktable. One sheet at a time, he placed the paper in to soak, running a hand over the surface to make sure it was completely saturated and no air bubbles remained below, “One at a time. Slow and careful. Some things can’t be rushed. You won’t enjoy the long trip to The Gripe to pick up more paper should these sheets get torn or ruined, ja’xa. They must be dried one at a time, too, pe’a.”
“Epa’ma.” Was all the youth said, nodding his understanding before going back to his work, now correctly.
Iyoas hissed uncomfortably through his teeth, wiping wet hands on his freckled face and neck to cool off before drying them on his apron and returning to the large lithography press that hulked in one corner of his workshop to mix new ink for the next color run. He had no idea what to do with the boy other than put him to work, which only reminded him that his jara had probably felt the same way.
"Your little one is very pretty."
Glancing down at the scroll, the painted writer pulled her hand back slowly. This wasn't the place, and there was no point standing around scaring the child.
"Are you... alright, poa'na?"
The words caught Shai'zara off guard. She looked at the stall holder, unable to find anything to say. The oshoor was used to the fear, and the hatred, and the biting comments. She knew how to speak to those words, but a small hesitant act of kindness...the young woman didn't know what to do.
"I uh..." She stammered in a soft unsure voice, her fingers playing with the edge of the scroll. Again, her stomach growled, demanding her to speak up.
"I'm...um..." What did she say? No, she wasn't alright. She hadn't been for fourteen years. Right now, she was weary and hot and starving. Her years of hatred and pain had built up a wall, one that protected her from the skewed view that society had of her kind. How easily a single question threw a dint in that wall.
"Uhh.." Her voice waivered for a moment, before she shook her head and took a deep breath.
"I'm not sure. This city is unfamiliar to me. I'm looking to sell, or work." She said honestly, wary and unsure how to continue.
“Very good, Daji.” Iyoas found himself smiling, nodding along as his unlikely apprentice rolled ink over the lithography stone with wide sweeps of the brayer, barely tall or long-armed enough to reach from edge to edge. He’d already shortened the young man’s name … was that okay? Was he already attached to his timid accidental printer’s devil? He might as well teach the boy to print instead of just do his more menial in between work like soaking paper or mixing ink or cleaning rollers or fetching food. The young man did as he was told and didn’t ask questions.
“Domea.” Tendaji mumbled, barely audible. He turned and put the roller back on the glass surface where the rest of the ink had been spread. Gingerly, the boy picked up a piece of damp paper, the same paper he’d soaked and dried himself, and hesitated to place it over the stone. His blue eyes glanced nervously at the tall printmaker and he chewed his lip.
“Just line it up. The marks in the corners I drew in wax are there for you to place the paper over so it’s straight. Don’t worry, no ink will smudge on the paper until it runs through the press. Just take your time.” The half-blood was being begrudgingly patient, though a brooding sort of discomfort hung in his field with a tangible weight. This was different than any other apprenticeship he’d allowed in his small shop; it wasn’t seasonal. No one was waiting on the boy to come home, and he didn’t even know what home to send him back to, anyway. What was he going to do after Poster Day?
He was not some halfway house for oshoori.
He was an established print house and bindery, for flood’s sake. Who did these stuck-up imbali think they were? All he wanted to be was just another imbala … not … whatever this was. Who else would leave their trash on his doorstep? What made anyone think he had any solution to the problem he lived with every day?
He watched the shorter, darker young man carefully line up the paper, almost admiring how he was willing to take his time and get it right. Was it out of fear? Or was Tendaji enjoying himself?
Iyoas wasn’t willing to ask those questions.
He wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear the answers.
“Now place the felt over the paper and I will run it through the press. Let’s see how your inking went.”
((Long set-up for an interesting encounter.))
The oshoor appreciated the honesty, putting the scroll back in her bag with a small nod. At least she knew how to gauge the rest of the community when it came to her...talents. The shopkeeper expressed knowledge of someone who could help her, and Shai'zara could only nod again, still wary of how she should take this kindness from the woman.
Stepping back to allow Lidya to close up her shop, the writer pulled her shawl closer to her face and looked down the street. It was almost dead with the lack of shoppers, yet she felt..guilt. This woman was going out of her way to assist her. Even when she terrified her and the babe.
"I..am sorry I scared your daughter." She said, wondering if the paint was necessary or even useful anymore. Maybe she should scrub it off before they left to see this someone. No, she thought, lifting her chin slightly. This was her face, a walking living nightmare. Regardless of the mask she wore, Shai'zara was an oshoor. Taking off her self-designed costume of fear would be just as good as leaving it on.
Somewhere in the back of her mind though, the thought lingered. A little worm of doubt burrowing into her mind. Somewhere buried deeper inside the little girl from the spice shop was secretly hoping that washing off the paint would wash away the magic and the stigma.
"You are kinder than most people I have met, most of anywhere." The blue eyed oshoor said suddenly, matter-of-fact tone to her voice.
“Now, to really see if you’ve lined up the colors, we must look very closely.” Iyoas was fumbling in his apron for his loupe, having already begrudgingly put on his glasses. Small, close things weren’t always in focus, and this annoyed the half-blood immensely since so much of his work depended on the details being right the first time. Setting their proof on a nearby somewhat mostly clean tabletop, he placed the loupe over a section of the page where the two inks touched each other, and peered into the lense, scanning the fine edge where the two colors met to see if they overlapped or if they simply met flush or if there was too much of a gap between them, “Daji, take a look and tell me what you see.”
The shorter youth slowly squinted one-eyed into the small viewport, glancing down at the thick fiber of the paper to where the two inks met.
“Do the colors overlap like there has been a flood or are they just touching, like where the Turga meets the wall of the Turtle?”
“Like a wall.” Tendaji said simply, “They are only touching.”
“Ea. Good. That is what I saw as well. Then we are set to keep printing.” The printmaker offered the young man a lopsided smile, turning to hang up the proof they inspected from clips on the ceiling. This was a simple two-color poster for yet another politician whose party he didn’t even remember. Most of his poster clients were, surprisingly, from non-imbali folk living lives far disconnected from the internal workings of the Turtle. Perhaps his own status as oshoori kept him from being contacted by the traditionalists for their own posters, or perhaps it was simply because he agreed to do work for non-imbali in the first place, regardless of his magical nature, that had kept him from being better accepted by his non-magical peers and neighbors. His father had worked for anybody, but because he had also been imbali, he was obviously more trusted in the community here on the island. Iyoas had never been very good at staying in his shadow: he did what he was skilled at and that was that.
By the time they would be finished printing this particular run of posters, the whole west side of the shop would look like a festival inside: posters hanging from the ceiling by clips in neat little rows to dry. The drying racks were already full with another politician’s work, and while the first color for this poster run had dried and was now neatly stacked near the larger lithography press, ready for the second color, the little shop would be bursting at the seams with so much paper by the night before Poster Day. Each set of posters would need to be signed, numbered, dried, wrapped, and packaged … only to be plastered all over every available surface and looked at for a few days before being forgotten forever. Such was the transient nature of paper.
Iyoas was hoping to finish this run of a few hundred before pausing to eat a later mid-day meal. It was still not as sweltering as the afternoon would be, so printing was not such terrible work. Windows open to the slight breeze that often fluttered through their narrow alley, the oshoor turned to wave a hand in the direction of the ink table, indicating what he’d like his apprentice to be doing for the rest of their run, “You ink and hang, I’ll print.”
He remembered to cram his glasses back into his apron's pocket before resting a hand on the large star-shaped flywheel of the huge lithography press that seemed to dominate his workshop, “I think we need to hope you grow a bit more before you can safely wrestle this larger beast.”
If left undisturbed for the rest of the morning, it would only have taken a short time for the pair to find a comfortable rhythm to print the day away to, moving smoothly between inking, placing paper, running the paper through the press over the stone, hanging the paper, and repeating, over and over again.
"Reasonable people are hard to find, you should be proud of that." She noticed the woman look away, and her smile faded as quickly as it came. Her fingers worked the strap of her bag somewhat nervously and she hoped it wouldn't be a long walk. It wasn't a pleasant trip for the woman, Shai'zara could see that. If she was too frightening to bestow gratitude the least she could do was let her whisk the child away.
"Do you...do you have any experiance with printing?"
The painted oshoor pursed her lips thoughtfully, chewing the inside of one cheek in casual habit. She had experiance in a range of varied things, but printing wasn't on the list.
"No." She said after a short while, shaking her head.
"I can ink, write..I can even cook. But I have not printed before. It sounds simple enough. Printing, if I understand the words in multiply produced books, is the act of putting ink to paper. I would imagine this is not as difficult as writing....other things..." The blue eyed woman finished hesitantly. Of course, she had no idea the level of work or detail that printing involved, but damned if she wasn't willing to learn or try.
And hey, worst case she could always cook or scribe. Surely a printer would need food. Or a hand to take notes. Or a floor to be swept. Surely. Hopefully.
Her stomach protested embarrassingly at the thought of food.
((So easy. Oh yeah! Iyoas totally passed out reading that. Just for that, this post is ridiculously long. Sorrynotsorry.))
The hike from the Liar’s Market, through the Way of the Book to the glorified alley called Ribbon Street would have been a good quarter of a house, if not half. The street felt entirely uphill, stairs and arches and long stretches of uneven cobblestones. How anyone once hauled cast iron printing equipment into the area was surely a mystery, especially if it was all done entirely without any magic at all, much to the pride of imbali everywhere. The Between Hours Press was on a corner off a cross street, hand-painted sign swaying in the barely-there breeze and round first-floor windows open to the somewhat shaded alley to provide a taunting hint of relief in the afternoon heat.
By the time Lidya and Shai’zara arrived, Iyoas and his apprentice had finally found a decent, though unpracticed rhythm. Ink. Sponge. Ink. Sponge. Paper. Blanket. Print. Hang. Repeat. It was a little bit of a mechanical dance with a second person involved, something that the half-blooded oshoor always had to be conscious of considering he’d only been used to a seasonal apprentice. Tendaji was much smaller than himself, full-blooded Mugrobi and at least half his age, but he was happy to keep up, ducking under long arms and otherwise being quick on his feet. For the most part, Iyoas was able to keep the boy out of harm’s way, though he knew he was slowing things down out of personal concern. Mangled limbs and smashed fingers were not really what anyone wanted imprinted onto their political posters, and while the tall bookbinder was skilled enough in magic to heal most minor printing accidents (because he’d experienced several of them himself), it wasn’t necessarily on his list of acceptable interruptions for the day.
Deadlines were tight and he ran on as little sleep as possible until the day before Poster Day. Everyone and their aide’s second cousin once removed would be crowding into his shop, hoping to haggle and pinch a few tallies (or a few concords) off their final payments before they hauled away their neatly wrapped tall stacks of posters to go glue on walls throughout their neighborhoods and hope for more votes. Votes for things he never even bothered to think about, barely bothering to consider the parties and faces and words he carefully crafted into ephemeral works of poster art for those willing enough to pay for his services. Why should he? No one bothered with his opinions, anyway, caught somewhere between two worlds who both didn’t want to admit he existed.
Interruptions now would just cut into what few houses of rest he allowed himself, though he was careful to keep his apprentice well-rested instead. He could handle himself on caffeine and adrenaline, but he wasn’t about to condone his slightly self-destructive poster season lifestyle on a boy barely out of childhood—
The brass bells that hung from his door jingled.
The door opened.
Someone called his name, but he didn’t look up right away.
“Ayah! Domea! One moment, please, and I’ll be right with you.” The tall half-Mugrobi struggled to call out with politeness and gentleness, turning the flywheel to the large lithography press to run one last print before pausing. Once the press locked into place, Iyoas left Tendaji to hang the page up to dry, nodding in the direction of the stairs to imply the boy fetch hot water, tea, and other goodies for their guests after he was finished.
Drown all the gods! They surely knew how displeased this made him.
Smudging ink without care, he used both hands to wipe sweat from his freckled face with a stifled groan of displeasure as he wove his way through the carefully organized yet precariously cluttered workshop, moving from one windowed side to the customer counter. He recognized Lidya and her rather endearing little babe, and began to smile in welcome, opening his mouth to ask if she was bringing her writer friend by so soon. Lagoon blue eyes, dark-ringed with sleeplessness, shifted from the imbala lie vendor to her companion as he leaned against his counter and his mouth hung open for a few moments longer than was at all polite. He blinked, unsure of how to react to the painted woman and her disturbing, bone-laden dress, a heavy weight of discomfort settling into his stomach. He wasn’t sure whether to be afraid or angry.
“Eh, uh, bhe—” Iyoas was far enough away to be unable to feel the field of Lidya’s guest, but he didn’t need to. Some things, he just knew. He suddenly wished it wasn't too late to hide his, to sign the motions and suck it all in the way limestone absorbed water. Too unfocused and too frazzled to bother, he just stood there, unable to be anything but obvious. Was there a note on his door? Was this something all imbali were taught to do behind his back? He forced a kind enough smile into the creamed coffee skin of his face, but something like fire spread across the nape of his neck as he spilled warm, welcoming tones from tired lips, “—Lidya Keziah, dom’bali? Allow me to welcome you and your … adame to my humble press in this time of great business and fervent activity before Poster Day. Epa’ma for the mess …”
Tendaji squeaked in fear from somewhere in the workshop, most likely upon spying Shai’zara. He was up the stairs and out of the room without another word, and the printmaker could only hope he remembered he was to fetch tea instead of hide.
“How may Iyoas Tar'iku Esef Roh assist you both this pleasantly breezy afternoon, poa’ni?”
The walk was long, and hot, and uphill. For a time, Shai'zara wondered if they were actually going to have her murdered or hanged. In Three-Flowers, long empty streets were a bad place to be. However, eventually they fell upon a corner shop.
The Between Hours Press, a painted sign declared, swinging ever so slightly in a gentle breeze that had attempted to grace the street. Lidya popped just inside the threshhold of the doorway, and the blue eyed oshoor slipped in quietly beside her, glancing around the shop.
It was clear that the activity and atmosphere in the shop was busy. There was a voice from behind a counter which faced to greet customers. A figured weaved through things of clutter she didn't quite understand to lean on the counter.
"Eh, uh, bhe-"
The man simply stared at her, his lagoon blue eyes taking in her appearance and mouth hanging agape for far to long. Shai'zara felt the confused emotions radiating like a ripple reach out to brush her. A field, from the man behind the counter. She held his gaze, jaw clenched suddenly. Instantly she felt cautious, glancing between Lidya and the shopkeeper.
He spoke again, welcoming them with a smile and warm words, but his field spoke otherwise. Anger? Fear? She couldn't tell, but her heart thumped in her chest. Lidya had said he had a similar background, how similar? He was oshoor, she was sure of it. Was he capable of fearing her? Did he understand why she looked like she did? Could he?
Iyoas. The name was unfamiliar to her. Somewhere in the shop, another voice squealed in fear. Shai'zara held her bag firmly and her tongue, unsure who should begin.